


Whetting the Witcher's Sword

by HDHale, WolfGeralt



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Massage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Power Play, Teasing, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22653220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HDHale/pseuds/HDHale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfGeralt/pseuds/WolfGeralt
Summary: Geralt draws in and holds a lungful of the fragrant, steaming haze that curls languidly around them, the concoction warming him to his frozen, aching bones. His broad chest swells into splayed, oil-slicked, yet string-worn fingers that cover his heart as it throbs slow and steady, so certain under Jaskier’s hand. He lets go of the sigh he’s holding with a groan that vibrates his breastbone as the bard smoothes downward and over his belly where it’s relaxed, comfortably full with a hearty stew that had been waiting upon his return. Curling his fingers before dipping into the water, the bard drags his blunt, neatly trimmed nails back through the thicket of hair on Geralt’s belly, giving a sweet purr of his own just below the Witcher’s ear.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 568





	Whetting the Witcher's Sword

Geralt draws in and holds a lungful of the fragrant, steaming haze that curls languidly around them, the concoction warming him to his frozen, aching bones. His broad chest swells into splayed, oil-slicked, yet string-worn fingers that cover his heart as it throbs slow and steady, so certain under Jaskier’s hand. He lets go of the sigh he’s holding with a groan that vibrates his breastbone as the bard smoothes downward and over his belly where it’s relaxed, comfortably full with a hearty stew that had been waiting upon his return. Curling his fingers before dipping into the water, the bard drags his blunt, neatly trimmed nails back through the thicket of hair on Geralt’s belly, giving a sweet purr of his own just below the Witcher’s ear.

The damp curtain of his pale hair is coaxed aside, Geralt’s head lolling with the barest ghosting of Jaskier’s warm breath, baring the column of his neck as the muscle flexes under petal-soft lips. His lashes have fluttered to a close, his breathing steady, his guard entirely dropped as he allows Jaskier to have whatever he likes. The tender, tacky kisses to his neck have Geralt groaning more generously, his thighs naturally falling apart with a gentle thud against the boards of the tavern bathtub. The relaxed posture allows more space for his thick cock, where it bobs in the water and grows plump with unhurried interest.

“This is nice,” Geralt rumbles, fond and grateful, opening his eyes with a few slow blinks as he turns his head back. With a small twist, Jaskier clutches a slow, tight fistful of his loose, long hair, steadying Geralt’s head. Their mouths meet, open and expecting, in a languid, long kiss that’s slick and leaves Geralt’s tongue and lips tingling. He’s always teased Jaskier about his clever tongue, which bests him every time, whatever manner they parry.

When they eventually draw apart, Jaskier is watching him with a softly dimpled smile and warmth in his seafoam-blue gaze. He pets Geralt’s hair, combing through the locks to neaten them once more, carefully not to snag any tangles as he grooms his lover. Each of them takes the opportunity of closeness to admire the intimate details of the other’s face. Geralt’s helpless for the bard and Jaskier preens to see it in the Witcher’s wolf-yellow eyes.

A quiet slosh and trickle of water and Jaskier’s attention moves down below, where he washes away the oil and water shining and beading on Geralt’s firmly muscled midriff.

“Perhaps sometime we could visit a public bathhouse. Someplace I can give you all this lavish attention you crave and then some…” Jaskier suggests, so casual in that sultry, mellifluous voice that has Geralt’s cock twitching even before he feels the first brush of the bard’s fingers.

He grunts as long fingers coax his cock into the soft palm of someone who’s lived the life of a nobleman, a scholar, an artist… There’s a suppleness and silkiness to Jaskier’s hand that’s part owed to the oils and perfumes he uses, but it’s finer than Geralt’s own calloused hand and never fails to draw a grunt from him with each pump and glide, slow and tantalising though they begin. Jaskier knows his weaknesses so well and plays on this particular one with the same deftness and mastery as his beloved lute.

“You have such a lovely cock,” Jaskier hums sweetly, the water stirring with gentle trickles and swirls that follow the motion of his wrist and hand beneath the distorted surface. He watches from over Geralt’s broad shoulders, one arm still placed lightly, strapping his chest down without needing to place any pressure there, the Witcher absolute putty and so trusting in his hands.

Even after having had Jaskier knead and massage the tension of battle from his muscles, Geralt still finds himself growing tense once more as the pleasure builds from his too full balls upward, heat stirring low in his belly. All his shifting agitates the water enough so that it sloshes and laps quietly at the edges of the tub, his feet and palms are planted against the boards, toes and fingers curling as he clings onto the edges of pleasure. They’ve been apart for days and the intensity is nigh unbearable.

There’s a deep purr from the bard as he slowly pushes and thumbs the Witcher’s foreskin upward, then an open-mouthed: “Ohh…” as he drags it back again, drawing Geralt’s cock upward towards the heave of his belly, slowly revealing the pink, drooling tip which leaks hungrily for more. “I could write a sonnet about your gorgeous cock. The mighty Geralt of Rivia’s sword which his bard gladly fell upon over and over again…”

The lighthearted teasing coupled with the twist and stroke of Jaskier’s hand had Geralt throwing his head back, the stretched line of his throat making his next grunt hard with want, stifled but harder somehow.

He wants to thrash and rut, but that slender arm laid across his chest keeping him in place and he knows better than that. When Jaskier’s in a playful mood, he’ll drive Geralt to madness and only give in when he’s grown desperate himself. So instead Geralt continues to cant his hips, which twitch in response to the slightest change of touch. Jaskier laughs breathily and with such love and wicked delight it makes Geralt’s head spin.

“Fuck.”

“Hmm, I might just be tempted if only you’d ask nicely and not in such a boorish manner.” Jaskier parries, wit sharp and hand quicker yet on the Witcher’s cock. “I’m a gentleman, Geralt. It requires more than the cock of a beast and pretty, golden eyes to have me. You know that.” That flirtatious lilt to the bard’s tone makes Geralt growl in earnest, gripping the edges of the tub so tightly he fears that it will splinter, while he gives a few frustrated snaps of his hips that make the water churn.

Jaskier’s oiled hand pushes down to the root of his shaft, grips hard and firm until Geralt is gasping open-mouthed… and then slips away, not even pretending to be coy about it.

“Naughty,” Jaskier chides in a manner that Geralt can picture his smile, even with his eyes are closed and his brow furrowed. He hears the ageing floorboards creak as Jaskier moves away. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, only letting go when he sits upright, aching, hard, panting ever so slightly as he shoots Jaskier an accusatory, heated glare as he stands at the very end of the tub.

There’s a satisfaction to be had in seeing the curved line of Jaskier’s cock where it’s risen in his fancy, silk trousers. He’s already dressed down- boots kicked away, barefoot, his blouse spread open to display the patch of soft hair on his thin chest, sleeves rolled unevenly to reveal wrists thin enough Geralt can squeeze two together in one large palm. The bard’s fingers pluck at his lace-trimmed shirt, coaxing it where it billows and spills over the tight fit of his trousers at his waist. Reaching up, he pulls it up and over his head in a flourish, extending his arm and lets the fabric drop in a puddle beside him.

His eyes remain focused entirely on Geralt, ever the exhibitionist, so eager to see and understand how he has such an all-consuming effect on the Witcher’s body, mind, soul.

“Go ahead and touch yourself, if you like,” Jaskier offers in a sultry whisper, fingers poised over the top button of his trousers, a slight swinging twist to his motions as he lingers as if trying to remain in one spot, so kittenish.

Geralt knows better than to do so, gripping the tub hard enough to make his knuckles pale. Jaskier likes to stretch his patience, wring him out, until Geralt truly does snap. It’s a battle of wits and stubbornness, as was so often the case for them in the past. It had taken years for Geralt to understand the tension and frustration could be remedied by other means.

“Mm. That’s what I thought.” Jaskier notes in a voice so hushed and pleased that Geralt knows it was meant for his ears alone. His cock strains, throbbing with the blood coursing through his body until their staring becomes too much, and Geralt cock twitches against his belly under the bard’s unwavering attention. The tug at the corner of Jaskier’s pretty mouth tells Geralt he noticed.

He’s finally rewarded by Jaskier thumbing apart the first button. The rest follow one by one and the dance, and as practiced as Jaskier is at this teasing, it becomes too much even for him. He ducks down swiftly, sliding trousers and underclothes down his long, fawn-like legs and stepping out of them neatly.

When Jaskier stands tall again, he prowls around the bathtub, soaking up being the sole focus of his Witcher’s attention. He fetches the larger of the towels and opens it up, pressing it into Geralt’s hand when he draws near.

Resting a palm on Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier leans down, brushing his nose against the Witcher’s warm cheek affectionately before placing a kiss against his cheekbone. Just a little one. Almost chaste. Geralt’s eyes close with an outbreath of wonder. He’ll never grow tired of Jaskier’s kisses of any kind.

“Dry yourself off and come join me in bed.” Jaskier pats Geralt’s wet shoulder and passes on by as though nothing had transpired between them, with all the confidence in the world.

His lover’s grown into a monster over the years, Geralt thinks to himself affectionately. Yet he pushes up, the water gurgling as it rushes to fill the void where his enormous bulk has filled the tub. He steps out, damp feet slapping on the floorboards as he scrubs roughly at his skin, watching beyond the privacy partition designed to split the bathing area from the bedroom.

There are light, breathy moans coming from beyond the screen wall, but Geralt can barely see a damn thing. He continues to rub at the patch of hair on his chest idly as he draws closer to the divide, given more and more of the beautiful sight ahead.

Long and pale with just the barest rosy flush to his skin, Jaskier is deliciously splayed out for Geralt to see. His knees spread as he gasps and rocks his hips subtly. His fingers are glossy and dripping with oil once more, chasing the viscous, fat droplets where they’ve dribbled between his plump cheeks. He smears them, pushing the oil back to his blush pink hole, which parts with just the barest of pressure from his delicate fingers. Geralt’s attention is narrowed in on Jaskier as he slides those lissom fingers deep inside himself, his pucker clinging to them as he slips them out, pushes another finger in, constantly spreading and fucking himself over and over.

“Geralt,” he pants, burying three fingers deep now he’s stretched enough and pushes slick, filthy noises from his hole as he pummels against his sweet spot. Each rub has Jaskier grunting so prettily, his other hand helping push one thigh away.

The towel slips from Geralt’s fingers carelessly as he’s pulled towards the sight of Jaskier pleasuring himself. There’s a glitter in Jaskier’s eyes that looks like success.

“Yes, come to me, love.” Jaskier’s fingers slide from his hole just as Geralt’s bed makes the rope and timber-framed bed dip and creak under his weight. He prowls forward, his own expression full of frustration and arousal as he makes his way between the bard’s parted thighs. His own cock hangs heavily downward and he glances down at the feeling of Jaskier’s tacky fingers taking hold of him once more.

The oil is enough to grease Geralt’s cock up, the bard pushing back his foreskin as the Witcher settles on hands and knees over him. The faint drag of a thumbnail over his slit has Geralt sucking a breath through his teeth in a hiss, his heart pounding, and Jaskier has the nerve to give a gurgle chuckle as he notches the tip of his cock against his taut hole.

He thumbs the very tip of Geralt inside and then gasps, almost arching of the bed entirely as the Witcher slams home.

This is a dance they know well. Jaskier will drive Geralt wild until he’s furious with want and so pent up that by the time he has Jaskier, he’ll show him no mercy. A hunch of Geralt’s hips, rocking his cock deep as it will go, stretching Jaskier that much deeper than his fingers can manage alone causes the bard to sob out.

Geralt grunts and growls as he begins to rut like a wild thing. Grinding his cock back and forth, he nudges his full, fat balls up against Jaskier’s velvety arse, where he warms them, nestled snugly against that plump, peach fuzz skin. He groans out as he remains buried, rolling his hips and watching as Jaskier’s skin bursts into a subtle outbreak of goosebumps.

“Fuck! Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice hitches and almost cracks with high, helpless sounds as Geralt lifts his hips and drops back into him. His hole grips Geralt’s cock with a plush, hot pulsing as if Jaskier’s body can’t bear to be parted from him. Raising his legs, Jaskier clutches onto Geralt’s waist, refusing to let him stop, and reaches to twine his fingers in the Witcher’s hair again for some desperate kind of purchase.

Each ball-slapping punch of his fat cock back inside Jaskier’s fluttering, slick hole is rewarded with an open-mouthed cry of Geralt’s name, or a new, beautiful note the bard has yet to sing for another. Geralt remains close in order to watch as Jaskier’s lashes flutter closed, savouring as they lift again to focus on him blearily, his mouth hanging open as he’s fucked deep and well.

Jaskier appears to be in utter bliss, and it’s a good look on him.

In those moments, Geralt kisses his slack mouth, devouring the keening, feeble noises Jaskier makes as he takes his lover’s huge cock in quick, little nudges that had him rubbing right over that most sensitive place inside.

“Geralt, Geralt,” he pants, pawing at his broad shoulders, clawing faint lines down over the Witcher’s muscular, scar mottled back. “I won’t last…” he whines, his head thrown back with a beautifully unrestrained yelp as Geralt takes the prompt to go rougher, harder, faster.

He plunders Jaskier’s hole, feeling the bard tighten, his body tightly wound and trembling like a plucked string on his lute. Jaskier’s climax is the most wonderful music to Geralt’s ears, as he bucks himself back against his cock and comes like that. His hole flexes and kneads around Geralt’s shaft, making him grunt into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, his orgasm reaching him all of a sudden as he feels Jaskier’s cock jerking and painting their bellies with warm come. Geralt remains buried to the hilt, pressing himself deep as his cock flexes, balls drawn up tight as he shoots his seed, burying inside Jaskier in rough nudges. He closes his teeth and mouth down against the crook of Jaskier’s neck with a muffled snarl that vibrates like distant thunder in his throat.

They remain tangled, holding each other tightly for a while, Geralt’s bite against Jaskier’s rabbiting pulse up until his hole relaxes and the Witcher’s cock softens. It slips away messily, causing Jaskier to whine out in quiet complaint. Soothing kisses are laid over the mottled, scarlet mark on Jaskier’s neck, Geralt feeling the fingers in his hair relax, starting to comb through it lovingly.

“I do love you,” Geralt murmurs, burying and nuzzling his way underneath Jaskier’s jawline, inhaling the scent of his bard sweaty and wrecked from sex. It suits him.

“I know, dear heart.” Jaskier reassures him, turning his head to kiss the Witcher’s damp brow. He knows how easily flustered Geralt gets in these special moments, how he shies away even as he admits his feelings so bravely. “You have my love too, Geralt. Always and forever.” There’s a faint sound of wonder to Jaskier’s tone as if he cannot quite believe to be in Geralt’s bed, or trading such heartfelt confessions so openly. It’s taken years, but they’ve torn down walls, gone through hell and high water to reach one another.

Geralt would have it no other way, and nobody else. For him, Jaskier is his world, and brings purpose and love into a once empty existence. How fortunate, he thinks, to have found him when he did, when Jaskier was so young, so that they might spend the rest of their time together so.

Rolling away from Jaskier, Geralt reaches for the towel to help clean him before they draw up the covers. They fall asleep entwined, Geralt never stirring, peace having found him at last. When he wakes, Jaskier is using the broad trunk of his forearm draped across his chest to tap out an imagined melody.

“Why, it is none other than _the Ballad of Geralt of Rivia’s Sword_ , of course,” Jaskier admits brightly, a gleam in his baby blues that invites Geralt to act on that twist of fond frustration in his gut.

With a wolfish grin and playful snarl, Geralt rolls over, pinning Jaskier’s slender wrists, and makes a futile attempt to silence the bard.

His mouth has the opposite effect and Jaskier is soon singing Geralt’s praises once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture writing Geraskier outside of roleplay. I have an AU fic in progress, as well as artwork, and cosplay.
> 
> Please, do let me know if you enjoyed reading. Kudos and comments are the fuel to a creator's fire. 
> 
> WolfGeralt on Tumblr.  
> Accompanying moodboard here: https://wolfgeralt.tumblr.com/post/190757343714/whetting-the-witchers-sword-wolfgeralt-geralt  
>    
> I do not consent to my work being reposted. Thank you for reading!


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